(Previously: THE GREAT DUCK MURDER)
At noon I emerged from my nest of rags with a football of dog feces lodged in my throat . . . nothing but static in my head, bones twisted and wrong, tar under my fingernails. Breathing in that stale midday air I knew it was going to be another miserable eighteen hours of wakefulness—of chaos and scattered sadness and barely perceptible tragedies that I alone would witness. Some I would even render myself.
Walking down the hallway I made known to absolutely no one at all my opinion on waking up, and on being alive in general: “This again, huh.”
I needed fluids, so I stomped into the bathroom and drank a half gallon of water from the faucet, hoping to kill the taste and push it—whatever it was—into a bath of stomach acid deep below.
In the mirror I saw a bloated armadillo carcass and decided it was probably my face. I hadn’t shaved in days. There was cigarette ash in my hair. The spiderweb cracks under my eyes whispered, Sooner than later you’ll be dead.
Soaked in cold water I lurched down the hallway toward the stove, slumping against the wall to keep from falling down, and once in the mouth of the kitchen I grabbed a marker and managed to scribble on the dry-erase board above the trash can the only English words I could find in my brain:
“THERE WAS A LITTLE TOOL SHED WHERE HE MADE US SUFFER, SAD SATAN”
Against the adjacent wall was a mile-high stack of tin cans and beer bottles and crushed cereal boxes. On the floor I saw tumbleweeds of cat hair. I put the kettle on the burner and flicked the dial left till fire appeared from some hidden place. It was high time for tea. Hell, it was high time for hate.
Sitting naked on the couch, eyes dumb and drooping, I examined my arms, skeletal and poorly assembled, a thin layer of skin saran-wrapped around the mangled structure of some damn thing that once worked the way it should. The sunlight was all bad and the air was hot and heavy. I took in a chunky lungful and nearly threw up in my mouth but stopped short. Really ought to have just gone ahead and let it out of me, I thought . . . probably would have been more honest that way. But I was barely anything at all just then, and to lose more of myself seemed irresponsible.
I glanced down at my dick and frowned. There was nothing new to report on that front.
Sunset and Dawn were out on the porch sucking down cigarettes like Coca-Cola and I could tell I wanted nothing to do with their conversation. I heard “Well, it’s simply a perversion of the Oedipus complex. . . .” and knew I had to get the hell out of there before I screamed myself stupid.
Stood up and arched my back and listened to the bubbly chemicals between my vertebrae snap, crackle, and pop. For a moment I considered sitting down at the pathetic little desk in my bedroom to sort through case files. We had a whole stack of them that Sunset and I hadn’t bothered with for months . . . we’d been content to jerk off after midnight and dream of nicer weather . . . but the thought rotted away and instead I shook my head and closed my eyes and held my breath and tried to picture someone, anyone, who would drop to their knees when they heard I was cold and empty-eyed for-ever—and finding no one in my mind’s rolodex, I placed one death-white foot forward, not sure why, the wood under my feet disagreeable, then another, still bad, eyes slammed shut and sparkling with violent broken sparks, and walked straight into a wall, feeling nothing. My eyes and brain weren’t making moving pictures of the world any longer, at least not then, and so I bathed in the sad dark soup in my head, hearing the faint mumbling of the assholes outside who were still going on about this and that and sounding a whole lot like a couple of cavemen who had taken a few community college courses one summer a long fucking time ago.
Somewhere in the house, I think near the washing machine, I thought about the impulses of animals: to eat, to sleep, to fuck, to shit somewhere safe.
What were mine? Certainly nothing of consequence. To be destroyed? To cackle wildly in the face of great evil? To be comforted by the warmth of another human body? All window-dressing.
But Jesus, that Roth girl really had combed my hair with her fingers the night before in the dark wastes of ruby-lighted bar over by Lake Merritt. Hadn’t she?
Yes, she had connected her body to mine and quickly disconnected it once I had uttered the wrong thing—or had she simply heard the wrong thing? I couldn’t remember. Probably never knew what I had been saying in the first place. Just rambling for the sake of hearing the sound of my voice, crisp and dumb.
I shivered when I recalled her punching me in the chest and telling me I was a worthless creep before storming out of the place. And I had chased her outside where she threw her bicycle light at me, saying, “God damn these cheap batteries!” and me saying, “Baby, don’t go.”
A trio of homeless guys hanging out nearby chuckled when she angrily sped away from me. I must have looked like a dope, standing there holding that dead light and not knowing why.
But for those few minutes back in the bar her touch had gone right in me, and then through me, and working its way along the tar pits deep below, gave me the faintest hope for myself and every living creature out there who is insane and foolish enough to say ‘yes’ to tomorrow. . . .